


Seasons of Change

by RobinTrigue, sanidine



Category: WWE, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Corn - Freeform, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 20:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7906552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinTrigue/pseuds/RobinTrigue, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanidine/pseuds/sanidine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock Lesnar’s work is very important. He cares for his crop as if it were his own flesh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seasons of Change

**WINTER** \- **CHEIMON** \- **ROYAL RUMBLE**

The earth has frozen over and snow chokes that land. In the east the rising sun is orange and hazy as it crests the flat line of the land, throwing long shadows that make the stark white landscape shimmer and glow.

An icy crust had formed on top of the accumulated powder, but Brock's boots punch through it like so much flimsy tissue paper. In the low morning light the holes that he has left behind looked like bottomless pits.

Brock Lesnar breathes in. He breathes out. The warm air puffs out in front of him in tiny clouds. He is comfortable despite the cold, sated despite the scarcity. 

Above the fields, the sky seems to stretch forever. It reaches from horizon to horizon with nothing to interrupt it's vast spread. Some days it is a sheet of heavy grey slate. Others, it is embroiled by threatening black clouds that seem to loom up into the heavens for an eternity. Sometimes the sky is so clear and blue and bright that it is difficult for Brock  to look at. 

Fields that were before raucous with life are now cold and still, save for the creatures that must continue to try and exist in the unforgiving landscape. The land is only waiting; the full bloom of life will reemerge in time. But not yet.

Dead stalks in snow, rows like cemetery tombstones or like the sharp, spiked teeth of a carnivorous fish. Spiders find their winter refuge among them, spinning webs in that which was once green and vibrant but is now brown and brittle. Brock knows that the field, full of death, will through its rotting flora again bring life; the underground roots mixing with ever-present fungus to form a matted layer of organics beneath the soil. The grubs slowly awakening as they dig towards buzzing, buzzing summer life. 

It would be easy for another man, quick or careless, to overlook these wonders. But Brock is not quick. He is not careless. He plods through the fields with the same attention that he uses in the growing months. 

Foxes, blood-red against the fallen powder, and coyotes in their gunmetal grey, sneak out in the golden dawn. These predators listen for the scurriers beneath the snow. Brock listens with them. Together, they hear that which lives even when nature has deemed this the time of slumber. 

They catch these rodents in their teeth, and death come at last in their short, short lives. All as it should be.

 

**SPRING** \- **EIAR** \- **WRESTLEMANIA**

The birds are headed north again. 

Brock has spent hours watching them fly overhead, head tipped back so that the warm sunlight shines down on his placid face. He remembers a time when there were flocks so thick that they covered up the entire sky. When they landed, the birds had been so fearless that Brock could pick them up off the ground. He remembers the feeling of their soft feathers underneath his fingers, fluttering.

The last of the frosts have come and gone, and the days are warm once more. As they were before and as they will be, reiteratively. But it is still cold enough in the mornings that the rising sun sometimes throws gleaming parhelions out to it’s sides before the warmth of it melts the early morning fog. Barking sundogs, Brock knows that they are the hounds that herald the coming of spring storms. Later in the afternoon heavy thunderclouds roll in from the mountains to the west and torrential downpours that soak the fertile prairies

Already Brock has seen spotted fawns poking along the edges of his fields. Brock always notices the deer, even long after the sun has set. He can see the flat white shine of their eyes in the darkness, the way that they go stock still and terrified as Brock passes them by. Many farmers say that the deer are pests, nuisances that make themselves fat off the lush crops of corn, but Brock does not care. The deer are inconsequential.

There may be many small hoof and pawprints in the freshly tilled dirt, but they are pressed down into nothingness in the wet mud by Brock’s heavier tread. Brock’s own tracks wipe away all others as he makes his way across the fields. He can feel the renewed warmth of the spring ground as it soaks up through the soles of his bare feet and the rich, dark soil that looks almost black in the light of the moon. 

It is not yet time to sow, but that time will soon be upon him.

Brock kneels down in the dirt. He lives so far out into the country that there is no artificial light at all. Not even the glow of light pollution from Regina to the north or Minot in the south can reach him, yet it is far from dark. B rock sees the world around him from the glow of moon, round and low and enormous looking as it hangs in the sky. He sees the stars that are vibrant pinpricks of light in an infinite blackness that is far from empty. 

The Milky Way smears above Brock, like a bright and jagged gash in the thin skin of the sky. He is unaware that many people have never seen a night sky that is so clear. He is unaware that no satellites pass above him. 

On his knees in the field, Brock Lesnar leans forward and digs his hands into the rich dirt. It is damp under his fingernails and the organic smell of it floods into his head. Brock raises his hands up to his face. He licks them clean and the particles form a fine grit between his teeth. There is a deep thrumming beneath him, and Brock knows that the taste in his mouth is the taste of life itself.  
  


**SUMMER** \- **THEROS** \- **SUMMERSLAM**   
  
Everything is so bright. There is no hiding under the sun’s burning gaze. At Brock's latitude it does not get truly dark until halfway through the night - it is as if the sun can hardly bear to say goodbye to the green, endless fields of Brock's domain at the end of each day.

The planting is long done, but there is still so much work to do. 

Viewed from the sky, Brock’s land is one of many enormous circles. The irrigation systems pivot around their central points, sprinkling the thirsty plants as they roll around and around. There are other ways to irrigate cornfields, Brock knows. Subsurface drip systems enable perfect rectangular fields and, therefore greater, yields. Brock ignores these alternative methods. The circles are correct.

Brock turns sideways and squints his eyes shut as the irrigator completes its circuit, as the truss spans passes by above him and he is soaked by the water. When he opens his eyes again he sees the many beads of water that have landed on the plants. Each drop is a perfect jewel, refracting the light and reflecting distorted images of the world

The young corn turns it’s exultant leaves towards the sun. Wide and flat, they rustle when the wind slips through them and it is as if the fields are breathing. All of that biomass photosynthesizing, and Brock is out among it. Just as he always has been. If there was a time before the corn then Brock does not remember. It is of no consequence to him.

Brock's skin burns, then peels, under the assault of the sun while he watches the plants grow. He never seems to tan, no matter how much time he spends outside. Flakes of Brock’s dead flesh scatter in the wind like so many wild butterflies as he walks between the rows. Where these fragments of him land the corn will grow taller, greener than that which surrounds it.

Bumblebees trundle through the hazy air, as large as a man's thumb. As large as Brock's thumb, and just as important to him. It is important that the crops are properly pollinated - without the bees the crop would be partial and stunted, unacceptable. The bees have round and graceless bodies that are fuzzy with genetic material. Somewhere there is a hive, a queen, and fat combs thick with honey. The bees bump into Brock as he walks past, but they do not sting. They are too smart to waste their precious lives on such a meaningless display. 

Brock knows that the bees simply wish to make sure that he will grow as well as the corn. They need not worry. He is growing stronger all the time.

 

**AUTUMN** \- **PNTHINOPORON** \- **SURVIVOR SERIES**   
  
The blood that Brock Lesnar has spilled throughout the year ensures a bountiful crop. It is almost time for the harvest. Soon it will be upon him, the days in which he is to reap, and to drive as slow as possible on the roads.

A hawk circles high above, riding the swelling currents of air and turning it's keen eye towards Brock. It will feast well on the many small and frightened creatures that scatter in Brock's wake as wanders through the fields, observing the corn. In places where there are trees with leaves, the leaves will soon begin to change colors. There are no trees on Brock's land. The only leaves that he knows are the leaves of the corn.

Brock Lesnar’s work is very important. He cares for his crop as if it were his own flesh. 

The stalks of the corn plants are thick and strong, scratching against his bare skin as he lumbers slowly between the rows. The ears are nearly ripe, rounded under the dark green leaves of the husks. Soft as silk, the tassels have dried and are going brown. Brock runs his hands along them, again and again and again. A strand of silk for each kernel on the ear of corn. Each kernel a tiny nugget of something so much more important than a human soul.

Occasionally on his route Brock will come across a dead deer. Some of the fawns that he had seen wobbling on unsteady legs are now nothing but carcasses. Twisted and deformed, even before they become bloated by the heat. They swell, grotesque, as the days pass and each time that he passes them by provides a familiar snapshot into the stages of decomposition. Brock does not interfere. He leaves them where they lay. The bones will wither and return their minerals to the earth once the flies and the vultures are done with the soft parts. 

Friendly insects crawl over the tops of Brock's shoeless feet. Buzzing cicadas and small grasshoppers with bright yellow and black exoskeletons land on Brock's shoulders, touch down on his heavy brow. Their tiny, delicate legs tickle over the ink of his tattoos. They lick the salt from his skin. They sing to him.

Like the bumblebees, these are Good Friends. They are a part of the cycle. When it is time for this flesh vessel to return to the embrace of the earth, these friends will help him. Brock Lesnar stoops down and picks up a dead cicada, cradles it in his hand; it has fallen in the natural course of things. The end of summer brings death and the things that feast on death. All is right.

  
Brock Lesnar pops the cicada in his mouth and chews.

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal God of the Harvest, Brock Lesnar, has consumed our souls. Forgive us.


End file.
